Forged in Ash (6 page)

Ten minutes earlier

Robert Biesel pulled into Coronado Ferry Landing’s restaurant parking behind a rusted, sputtering sedan. The exhaust-riddled eye-ear-and-nose sore had been a lifeline since he’d been following Simcosky closer than normal. The weekend traffic was thick, the drivers aggressive and impatient, which upped the chances he’d lose his target. Sure he had a partner to tag team Simcosky with, which cut down on the threat of discovery; but he couldn’t tell Phillip where to intercept the SEAL unless he knew what street the bastard was headed down.

And then that crazy-ass sedan had joined the fun. The car’s exhaust had shielded him from view and given him a beacon to follow once he realized the frizzy-haired woman behind the wheel was tailing the big bastard too.

He circled the parking lot and found a space twenty feet from Simcosky. His vantage point gave him a clear view of both cars. Shoving his beige and boring Oldsmobile into park, he turned off
the engine and slumped down to limit exposure, wishing he could kick back and take a nap.

“It’s a one-nighter,” Manheim had told him. “You’ll be back on surveillance in twenty-four hours, forty-eight tops.”

Robert snorted in disgust. There was more work involved in grabbing eight scientists and faking their deaths than Manheim realized. Hell, making the explosion look like a laboratory accident had taken precision and timing. But had the bosses given them a couple of extra days? Hell no—they expected everyone to work around the clock.

The sedan had grabbed a parking space along the sidewalk. Robert eyed the woman behind the wheel and twisted to look behind him. Simcosky was waiting next to his truck with his feet spread and arms crossed. A rendezvous was definitely in the works, but from the cold expression on Simcosky’s face and the intimidation in his stance, it didn’t look like a friendly one. Maybe he was having girlfriend troubles.

As the woman climbed out of the sedan, he picked up the bottle of Coke from the console beside him. Twisting off the cap, he took a sip, and grimaced as warm fizz flooded his mouth. The woman headed in Simcosky’s direction. His gaze traveled up a thick, wooly overcoat—was she fucking insane? It was ninety degrees out there—and settled on a thin, haggard face.

Which he instantly recognized.

He choked, and soda went down the wrong pipe, burning all the way to his lungs. A seizure of coughing gripped him.

Holy freaking shit.

Through streaming eyes, Robert watched the woman he’d shot twice and dumped into the icy depths of Lake Katcheca almost step in front of an oncoming car—and wouldn’t that have been sweet? It
would have saved him from this sudden, immense headache. Except she caught herself at the last minute and jumped back.

The damn woman had more lives than an alley cat.

What the
hell
was Jillian Michaels doing in Coronado? More importantly, why was she meeting Marcus Simcosky?

The old man was going to freak over this, and guess who’d feel the full force of all that rage?

Robert broke into another rabid round of coughing, his heart pounding so hard he felt it in his head. He’d come close to joining Branson in the grave when Jillian had given them the slip at the hospital. The only thing that had saved his ass was Phillip stepping up to corroborate Robert’s insistence that he’d checked the woman’s pulse.

Which she hadn’t had when he’d buckled her into the van, because she’d been dead. He knew dead when he saw it. She’d been dead. Just like her kids.

He dragged in a couple of breaths and smothered the coughing. By the time he swiped the tears from his eyes, Jillian was walking down the sidewalk, away from Simcosky.

Robert turned to watch her. Had she noticed him and abandoned the meeting? He checked the pickup again. Simcosky was watching her with confusion too.

The fact she was in Coronado and interacting with one of the SEALs the bosses were so obsessed with was going to bring the hornets of fury down on his head.

And running was useless. How the hell was he supposed to hide when his entire body was one gigantic tracking device? Nothing could keep him from joining Russ in the grave this time.

Unless…he watched Jillian grow smaller and smaller. If he could grab her before his men caught sight of her, before the bosses were any the wiser…

He grabbed his cell phone. For this to work, Phillip needed to stay across town.

“Hey,” he said as soon as the call was picked up. “Looks like Simcosky’s headed home. Why don’t you head over to Orange Avenue and catch him at Tenth?”

“Sure,” Phillip said. “Give me a heads-up if he changes course.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Robert said and ended the call.

Dropping the cell onto the passenger seat, he checked on Simcosky again. His original target was climbing back into his truck.

Swearing, he turned to glare after Jillian. He could hardly grab the woman here. Not with half the city in the parking lot, and a Goddamn SEAL watching.

A few minutes later, Simcosky took off, but in the opposite direction of Jillian.

What the hell was going on?

Jillian was his priority, so he let Simcosky go. Settling back he waited. As soon as the chance presented itself, he’d grab her.

And make sure he used up every one of those lives of hers.

Chapter Three

C
OSKY DOUBLED BACK
to Kait’s apartment complex. The building was surrounded by parks. Across the street from the main entrance was a grassy, tree-studded swath of ground complete with baseball diamond, metal bleachers, and a set of pillared, open buildings with picnic benches and barbeque pits. Nestled against the building’s back was another grassy area, this one housing tennis and basketball courts and a bike trail.

The apartment complex itself was huge; it swallowed the entire block, a seven-story tower of steel and glass. It looked expensive as hell, which probably meant it had an elevator. An amenity that wouldn’t have concerned him four months ago, but since she lived on the sixth floor that elevator was a major concern at the moment.

He parked in the visitor slot next to the sidewalk. How the hell could she afford a place like this? Coronado apartments were budget breakers. He had to share a three-bedroom condo with Rawls and Zane—now Aiden—just to afford a place off base and that was with their military discount.

And their place didn’t have anywhere near the amenities this place boasted, yet Aiden said Kait lived alone. But then he didn’t
know anything about the woman, regardless of how many times he hammered into her during those damn dreams.

An image took shape in his mind: long legs wrapped around his waist, and a sweet ass in his hands. Tension seized him, the kind of tension his earlier workout was supposed to discourage. He scowled as his cock swelled.

Son of a bitch.

He’d only seen Kait Winchester twice. Or at least, he’d only seen the actual woman two times. A slender, stoic beauty with shaking hands accepting the flag draping her father’s casket—and a drawn, white-faced angel at Aiden’s bedside.

He’d been dreaming about her since.

Except, in his dreams she hadn’t been hurting. Not like she’d been in reality. He’d recognized the pain in her eyes. He’d seen that same pain often enough in his mother’s eyes after his father died.

Their second meeting was crystal clear in his mind; they’d brushed past each other in the hall outside Aiden’s hospital room. The contact had only lasted a split second, but it had stopped him in his tracks, and set every nerve on fire. His pulse had warped into overdrive. He’d started to turn, to follow her back into the room. That’s when alarm bells had kicked in. She was dangerous. If one glance stopped him cold and one touch caused instant arousal, then he needed to steer clear.

Now.

Before he got a taste of her.

Such instant, overwhelming attraction led to things he had no intention of exploring—like obsession and need.

So he’d retreated, and avoided her for the next five years, but even now, five years later, he could still smell that sweet citrusy scent that had clung to her skin.

He glanced at the cane braced against the passenger floor as he climbed out of the truck, but left it there. No way in hell was he gimping his way to her door, cane in hand. It was humiliating enough limping there under his own steam. It was also uncontroversial proof that he’d lost his mind.

What was he thinking?

He’d avoided the woman for five years because of the fire she lit under his skin and now he was going to lie there on her massage table and let those hands, that had been plaguing his dreams for more nights than he cared to remember, roam over his bare skin? One of those bullets must have been a head shot, because he’d sure as hell lost his mind.

A woman with spiky pink hair tending a stainless-steel coffee cart greeted him with a flirty smile when he reached the front doors. He ignored her, concentrating on the gold plate with its rows of numbers and names next to the entrance. He found K. Winchester, apartment number 607 and pressed the button beside the name.

“Yes?” a woman asked immediately.

Cosky stirred uncomfortably beneath the rasp of her voice. They’d made the arrangements through text messages, so he hadn’t heard her speak. Nor had he expected her voice to affect him on such a visceral level. Wasn’t that just perfect? Now her damn voice could join her hands and hair in an erotic dream trifecta.

“Kait Winchester?”

“Lieutenant Simcosky?” The lilt at the end of that smoky voice turned his name into a question.

“Yeah.”

There was a short pause, as though she was surprised he’d shown up. That made two of them.

“I’ll buzz you in. There’s an elevator at the back of the lobby.
I’m on the sixth floor, apartment 607, end of the hall, on the left,” she said in that raspy voice, as though she’d just crawled out of bed.

An image flashed through his mind—golden hair spread across a dark pillow. He swore softly as his body tightened. Shit, he was already twitchy as hell, which didn’t bode well for lying there chaste as a priest while her hands roamed over him.

“You’re visiting Kaity?” the coffee girl asked. “She’s at the end of the hall, sixth floor.”

“So I heard,” Cosky said tersely, reaching for the door as soon as the buzzer sounded. The image of pale hair sliding across silk sheets followed him into the lobby. This was insane. But he kept walking.

Aiden claimed that there was magic in those slender, aristocratic hands. And his teammate had the miracle to back that claim up.

Cosky wasn’t so sure. But nobody had expected Aiden to walk again. They sure as hell hadn’t expected him to run. Yet, there he’d been, barely six months after they’d pulled him into the Black Hawk, running a mile and a half in nine minutes.

Nine. Fucking. Minutes.

So Cosky would lie there and let those sexy hands of hers drive him out of his mind, in the hope he’d be blessed with a miracle too. Because without one, his seat in the Zodiac would be handed over to someone else. A gimpy leg had no place on the teams.

A trio of coeds spilled out of the elevator and approached him, their toned arms cradling tennis rackets. He ignored their flirtatious smiles, and lurched along faster, trying to catch the elevator.

It closed two feet before he reached it.

Swearing beneath his breath, he jabbed the up button. Four months ago he would have hauled ass up the stairs without a second thought. But then four months ago he’d given this building a wide
berth. He’d have signed up for a battery of psych evaluations, rather than face the threat of her massage table.

Four months ago he’d still possessed a brain, in the upper quadrant of his body.

By the time the elevator reached the sixth floor his leg was shrieking like a Black Hawk shedding its propellers and the last thing on his mind was sex. Thank you Christ.

Not that he’d ever had trouble bringing his body to heel, but at least he wouldn’t have to struggle with that particular demon during the next hour. Not when cutting off his leg, without anesthesia, sounded like a viable alternative to its current bitchiness. As he limped his way out of the elevator and toward her apartment, her massage table was sounding better and better. At least he’d get off the damn leg.

He pressed the buzzer beside her door and fought the temptation to lean against the doorjamb while he waited for her to answer. He probably should have brought the cane, although the humiliation of hobbling his way into her apartment, cane in hand, just might beat out the humiliation of crashing face-first at her feet without the cane to stabilize him.

When the door opened, he breathed a sigh of relief. There was no sign of that loose golden hair from his dreams. She must have pinned it to the back of her head. She was also wearing a loose, peach T-shirt and baggy, lightweight cotton sweats, which meant everything of interest was covered.

So far, so good.

Until she opened her mouth.

“Aren’t you supposed to be using a cane, Marcus?”

There was something far too intimate in the way her throaty voice caressed his name. Something that made his body flex and fix on her with too much interest.

Besides, only his mother called him Marcus. “I go by Cosky, or Cos.”

Intense brown eyes studied his face, and her eyebrows lifted. “I’m not one of your teammates.”

He stiffened slightly. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Before he had a chance to ask, her mouth was moving again. The shape of those curvy, pink lips distracted him for a moment. By the time he shook the distraction aside, he’d missed most of her response.

“…by refusing to use the cane, you’re setting your progress back?”

Forcing his weight onto the leg in question, he locked down any sign of pain and stared back. “It’s fine.”

“Riiiiight.” She raised her eyes to the ceiling and shook her head. “Of course it is. That’s why you’re here.”

He studied her heart-shaped face, for the first time recognizing the stubborn tilt to her chin. “We going to do this out here, or can I come in?”